


A Man of Habits

by orchid314



Series: Four Vignettes [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-22 11:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14307276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid314/pseuds/orchid314
Summary: "He was a man of habits, narrow and concentrated habits, and I had become one of them. As an institution I was like the violin, the shag tobacco, the old black pipe, the index books, and others perhaps less excusable."





	A Man of Habits

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to rachelindeed for her marvelous beta-reading of this story.

Watson drank his tea, but he scarcely tasted it. His eyes were fixed on the telegram that he had received not an hour since and that he now read again:

18 APRIL  
DR JOHN H WATSON NO 2 AIRLIE GARDENS KENSINGTON  
APOLOGIES FOR EARLY HOUR STOP SENDING YOU A PATIENT NOW STOP  
HE MAY BE DIFFICULT STOP WILL YOU SEE HIM QUERY  
G LESTRADE

As he finished, he heard the bell ring at the front door and the housemaid move to answer it. Watson emerged from his study, half unwillingly, to find Holmes framed within the threshold. 

His face appeared more drawn than when he had returned from the land of the dead a few short weeks ago, although his color had improved somewhat, and it was clear that the only reason he had come was because Inspector Lestrade had refused to present him with new cases if he did not seek treatment immediately at Watson’s surgery in Kensington.

Watson took his overcoat and hat and saw that Holmes adjusted the cuffs of his shirt round his wrists with care. He wondered if his arms contained fresh instances of those telltale marks of his friend's once vicious dependency on cocaine. His left temple was swollen and threatened infection. 

"I accompanied some members of the Metropolitan Police as they attempted to surround their man, but they hadn't taken into account his henchmen, who fell upon us with everything they had to hand. I received the energetic attentions of a fellow with a beer bottle."

"Let’s have a look at it then," and Watson ushered his patient through the consulting-room and into the smaller room beyond it where he conducted examinations and performed small procedures.

Holmes hesitated, remaining just inside the door.

"Well, come in. Have a seat there beneath the window," Watson indicated with his head.

Holmes made his way to the chair and settled into it stiffly, as Watson called the maid for water and began assembling the articles he would need to clean and dress the wound. The room held the scent of laundered linens and antiseptic, with manuals and instruments arranged on neat shelves along the farther wall. But Watson was conscious of its hushed air of disuse and how this must be apparent to Holmes. 

The servant had brought the pitcher of water and gone. As he unfolded the bandages, Watson stole a glance at Holmes seated beneath the window that let in the bleak light of spring. His long, nervous hands were clasped atop the waistcoat of his suit. Watson felt the twinge of guilt that comes from looking on a person in a vulnerable state without his knowledge, and wished he had it in his heart to be more generous. It was this that most troubled him. That he could not forgive the man whom he had once called his dearest friend.

After the initial elation of seeing Holmes again, and the triumph of apprehending Colonel Moran, he had found himself lying awake for long hours, trying to find arguments that would justify Holmes's disappearance. It reminded him of the insomnia that had plagued him while nursing Mary through her last illness. No, it wasn't Holmes's disappearance that exceeded his forbearance, it was the deliberate silence from him during the time he was gone. Watson must somehow have fallen several rungs in his companion's estimation for Holmes to have vanished without a word. He had soon discovered what a very lonely outpost it was.

Watson carried the items over to Holmes's side, arranging them on a tray atop a small table there. The quiet in the house was absolute.

"Your new surgery," Holmes began. "It's quite comfortable. Better than the one you had before in Paddington. You bring in more income here than you did then, but you see fewer patients now. You're of a mixed mind: you want to close up the surgery, but feel a great responsibility to those patients you would leave behind."

"You've deduced all that, have you? From the ledger on the desk there and the tweezers I hold in my hand?"

"Yes, in part. But mostly I see it written in your face." 

Watson was taken aback by the remark. He leaned down and began removing the small pieces of glass that had embedded themselves in Holmes's skin.

After completing the task, he straightened and said, "I've thought about seeking new quarters, but I'm not sure that I should pick up and move merely because some days are less pleasant than others. At least here I have my memories of Mary. Of our life together. So perhaps it's just as well that I remain for now."

As soon as he had uttered the words, he regretted them. He knew that Holmes wanted him to return to Baker Street and resume their work together. He was too proud to mention it again, of course. He had only extended the invitation once, at Baker Street, directly after he had come back to London. Watson had demurred and then a visitor had arrived, one of many who had come to hail Holmes's resurrection, and the matter had slipped away.

Was it the right course of action, though, staying here? If Watson were truthful with himself, he would admit that he had grown a bit too accustomed to his melancholy and, if he were even more honest, that he had decided to seal up his life, like the old tin dispatch-box upstairs with its unfinished tales, to guard himself against future misfortune.

But return to Baker Street? He felt its pull so strongly that he was forced to make an excuse of washing his hands, and stepped away to the basin behind him.

"Mrs Watson, she–" Holmes said. 

"Yes?" Watson replied, his back still turned.

"I imagine that the loss of someone so beloved, who brought so much light into your life–must have been–must be–difficult."

What would Holmes know about that? Oh, uncharitable, Watson, uncharitable. Holmes had always treated Mary with the greatest respect, and she in turn had viewed him with a certain awe. The two of them were of a kind. Two attachments that had brought such unexpected pain.

He returned to Holmes's side.

"Sit back, Holmes. If you don't follow orders, it'll only take longer to be done with this."

"You never behave this way in your stories." 

"I thought you never read my stories."

Watson was struck by the notion that Holmes was bluffing his way through the present situation. Gallant, but bluffing nevertheless. 

"Oh, I've read them all," he said lightly. "Every line, during my travels. At first I avoided them, after you were done reading me your drafts, that is. Nothing more loathsome than having oneself reflected back to oneself, I always thought. But I slowly realised they weren't wholly about me, were they? Their subject was a much more magnificent one." 

Watson continued applying the dressing, but wondered that his fingers did not reveal the involuntary stumble of his pulse at this. 

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning."

"Aren't you?" 

"What subject could be worthier than your brilliant mind?"

"Can't you guess?" Holmes asked with a tone of almost-disbelief in his voice. 

Watson could not, in good conscience, continue to willfully misunderstand the words. He must face them. It was a valiant offering that Holmes was making.

"Perhaps–Perhaps I can guess at it after all." He let his reply float out into the space between them, and allowed himself a quick glance at Holmes. The face that looked up at him from the examining chair was filled with terror. 

Holmes glanced away at the enameled tray by his elbow. The extracted pieces of glass lay there like small brown seeds. Watson noticed that sweat had broken out all along Holmes's hairline.

Unsure of himself, but determined to relieve his friend's discomfort, he took a new cloth from the supply at hand, went to dip it into the cool water of the basin, then came back and, with careful touches, freshened Holmes's face, never meeting his eyes. The only sounds were those of the maid sweeping the front hallway on the other side of the consulting-room door. 

Watson finished with the cloth, and removed the towel that he had draped over Holmes's left shoulder. "Now healing takes patience, you know, something I recognise is in short supply with you," he said, trying for the tone of their old banter. "But you mustn't pick at the bandage, or the injury will never repair itself."

Holmes arose, making ready to leave, and looked at him, questioning and grave. 

As if commanded, Watson drew himself up to his full height and in that moment he knew that he was no longer afraid. He would submit to his fate, just as he had done in the smoke-filled ravine at Maiwand. Then, the pain from a Jezail bullet had led him to a life he would never have dreamed he could have. So, now, let this new pain lead him forward and he would discover what it, in its turn, might bring.

"Your notes," Holmes said. "There are still quite a few of the cases that you never wrote up while I was away. Should you like help in reviewing them?"

"Yes, I think I should," Watson answered, his voice gathering hope. "Yes, perhaps the time has come for some new stories to be told."


End file.
